Tyelpëlirë
by Gardeners Grow Love
Summary: In a moment of foresight, a gift which she would later be known for, Istarnië spoke. Listen


            Thank you to everyone that read and reviewed my first story, 'Filit'.  I treasure your reviews.  I usually get in touch with reviewers through e-mail or through messages on my profiles page, as I like to let people know that they are very much appreciated.  It makes the pains of my fumbling with words all the more worthwhile, to know that other people can see the scenes that are painted so beautifully in my imagination.  Alas, that my writings are mere shadows of what I can see.  Hopefully, as my writing gets better, I can better share my imagination with you.  

Tyelpëlirë

            The fire of his anger burned a brighter flame than even the heated glow of Aulë's forge.  

Fëanáro clenched his hands by his sides as he shook with rage.  The fiery eyes of the frustrated craftsman were embers that shone red-grey as they glared at the disobedient silver sitting in front of him, willing it to bend to his command by the intensity of his will.  

The silver sat unmoving, uncaring.

            Fëanáro did not understand.  He had seen such promise.  The metal had shivered under the eager touch of his hands, responding to the brightness of his fëa.  It had sung to him of caressing the light of the Trees on its smooth sleek skin and had begged for a graceful and beautiful form with which to hold the light in a fragile embrace.  _Shape me, it whispered.  _

And he had seen in his mind a silver lantern capturing the light of Telperion and Laurelin within panes of glass, and he admired the beautiful simplicity of the design, for its lines were clean and served no extraneous purpose other than to trap the radiance of light within its silver cage.  So he set to work, while the golden light of the day was still young and strong.  

            The making should have been simple, for his hands were skilled and sure, the design in his mind ready to take flight through careful orchestration with his tools.  It should not have been so difficult to bend the silver to his will, soften it into long strips and weld the pieces seamlessly together into a silver cage.  But it had been and more.  The metal had balked and shied despite his gentle firm handling, resisting the shape that he sought to give it.  The music of the other metals of the forge sang, taunting him with their ready submission to the lesser skills of the other craftsmen while the silver cradled in his hands bent in strange angles that he did not wish it to.  

            _Do you not want the beauty I can give to you?_

The metal did not reply.  

            Refusing to acknowledge defeat, he stood at his workbench and stared at the silver pieces.  For the young apprentice of Mahtan, the world had reduced to only the worn wooden surface of the table and the jumble of half-formed metal pieces.  He did not hear the curious whispers of his fellow artisans and smiths or feel the occasional glance alight on his rigid straight back, though his cheeks would have blushed red had he known they had noted his difficulty.  Did the Skill of Finwë stumble in his art? they asked themselves in whispered voices, though their words were gilded only with wonderment and disbelief.  

The day waned.  The elves of the forge left in a slow trickle.  The fires diminished to a purr and the oddly melodious clang of metal against metal, punctuated by the sighs of glowing red pieces thrust in water, slowed to a lazy march.  The light of the Trees began to mingle.  And Fëanáro stood with proud back and ember eyes in the forge, glaring at the silver.

            _Why is it that you will not bend to me?!_

The metal did not reply.

In his frustrated anger, the cradle of his hands became a strangle and the straight metal strips twisted under his strong fingers as the dark features of the craftsman twisted in a moment of revealed rage.  Then the moment of blind rage was over.  He looked at the mangled metal and felt ashamed that his hands, the tools with which he created beauty, had brought about destruction of his art simply because they had failed in their craft.  The full meaning of the thought struck him as he realized its implications.

Failure…  

He had failed.  An icy touch of dread froze the edges of his anger.  

Fëanáro cast the pieces on the ground and fled, seeking escape from the suddenly confining heat of the forge and the silence of the twisted silver.  The few craftsmen left in the forge looked at his departing figure in sympathy and it was well that the proud son of Finwë did not see their pity.

*          *          *          *

            Lying on the ground, they looked like broken things, handicapped toys discarded by a child.  Istarnië had thought she had heard a sound in the vast silence of the cavernous forge when she had returned to quiet the restlessness of her hands.  The nìs had approached the worktable and found them, abandoned to the shadows.  The sight stirred her to pity.  She reached down to pick up the orphaned silver.  As her hand brushed against a piece, a faint cry echoed in her mind.    Istarnië paused at the sound and looked about her to discern the source of the sound.   The forge was quiet and empty.  Her eyes came to rest again on the silver.

            _Why do you sorrow?_

            The metal did not reply.

She wrapped the pieces in cloth, careful that the oil stains of the cloth did not touch the metal and slipped them into her pocket.  Without knowing why, instead of walking to her usual workbench to patiently tease forth the hidden nature of her fragrant wood with steady hands and quiet excitement, Istarnië headed for the wide doors that opened to Yavanna's gardens.  She knew she had to find the artist to whom the silver belonged.  From former experience, she knew that, most likely, he would be under the peaceful shade of a tree or lying on the grass staring at his hands.  That is, if he had not left dejectedly for home already.  Reaching a hand to touch the cloth-cradled silver, Istarnië did not think that he had.  The passion that twisted the metal was still too hot.

            The daughter of Mahtan was surprised when she found him.  

She had expected Máramo or Carnilino, fellow apprentices of the forge.  The last person she had expected was the prince of the Noldo, the Skill of Finwë and one of the most promising craftsmen under her father's tutelage!  Suddenly, the rough fabric of her work garments chaffed her skin and her fingers became aware of the roguish strands of hair that framed her face.  Istarnië half-turned to leave the prince; perhaps he was not even the craftsman that she sought.  She hesitated as her fingers dipped into her pocket and traced the lines of the silver through the cloth, feeling the painful twist of the pieces and a glow of the fire of the spirit that had touched it.  The same fire that radiated from the brooding figure that stood before her.

Mustering her courage and the few lessons in the intricate delicacies of etiquette befitting a lady that she had half-heartedly listened to, Istarnië approached the brooding prince.  "My prince, I wish to have a word with you."  

The softly-spoken words shattered the peaceful stillness of the garden.  The shards of the broken silence cut into Fëanáro's quietly anguished thoughts and drew irritation.  Did the world have so little respect for one fallen from one's rightful position at its apex that it should intrude on his private moment of frustration and loss?  Curufinwë slowly turned his head towards the maiden addressing him, assuming the regal and aloof air of his office and mood while he contemplated whether the intruder should suffer from the fire of his wrath or the frost of his indifference.  

It was the hair that caught his attention and, for a fascinated moment, it drove away the dark thoughts shadowing his mind.  The way her hair glowed like polished copper; Fëanáro had never seen its like, even in the purest veins of newly uncovered copper glimmering by torchlight.  His eyes flickered from the bronze crown of hair pulled back in a loose braid to the soot-smudged pants before settling on the freckled face.  The nìs was one he had seen before, one of the few female craftsmen apprenticing at Aulë's but he could not place her name, though she reminded him of someone... 

Master Mahtan.  That was it.  This nìs was his daughter for who else would have flaming tresses?  But unlike the neat copper braid of his teacher, the maiden's hair was the wild waves of a red-gold sea that his fingertips suddenly wanted to glide through…  

The elven woman coughed politely, directing the prince's gaze back to her face.  Curufinwë looked down at her with raised eyebrows, letting a formal coldness harden his eyes.  Istarnië met the condescending conduct with a chin lifted higher than necessary to meet his gaze.

            "What is it that you wish to speak to me of?"  

She reached into a deep pocket and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle.  Fëanáro's eyes narrowed as he saw what was enfolded in the fabric.  "I found these."

            "What of it?"

            Istarnië frowned, hands tightening around the silver as though to protect it.  "I believe they are yours and that you wish to have them back."

            "You thought wrong.  Waste not my time with such inferior scraps."  

Her frown deepened.  "They are not inferior.  And they are yours."

"Not any longer."

"How can you cast away your own work as though it were worthless?"

"Because it is."  She opened her mouth to argue but the prince cut her off with a dismissing wave of his hand.  "Leave me."  Fëanáro turned back to the soothing beauty of the emerald hills but they no longer gave him any measure of peace from the sting of failure.  Where before the hum of growing plants and the soft unfurling of leaves had enfolded him in the tranquility of green things, there was only the loud silence of the twisted silver.  The indifference of the metal was foreign and painful to him, for all metals spoke and sang to his fëa.  His hands guided their voices to create harmony to the rhythm of his heart.  But this silver had refused his symphony.  Its silence was rejection of his skill, the sharp accusation of failure.  Fëanáro had never met with failure before and it hurt, this meaningless silence.  He wished for the muted thunder of the forge fires to drown out the emptiness, something loud and violent to fill the vacuum that he feared would consume him to satiate its lack.  

Instead, the void was filled by the soft breaths of the nìs still standing beside him.  Without bothering to look at her, he spoke.  "Why are you still here?  I wish to be alone."

            "Because this is yours."  Her voice was strong and loud.  Her tone shone as bright as the copper of her hair and he wondered that she could say so many things by the mere inflections of her words.  

_Because you have no right to command anything of me._

_Because you owe me an apology for your rudeness, you brat!_

Fëanáro turned to face her again, letting his annoyance and anger kindle the embers in his eyes.  He challenged her but her spirit was of like fire and she matched his gaze with twin flames of blue that were burned brighter than any gemstones he had ever beheld.  They glared at each other.  Stalemate, but the proud prince of the Noldo was not about to let this mere nìs best him in a staring contest.  So determined was he to be the victor that he did not break from her eyes even as she stepped close, her fiery hair an arm's length away from his touch.  She smelled of the forge and the fire.

Istarnië wondered that she did not burn from the intensity of the prince's glare as she stepped close to him.  Never breaking from his eyes, she reached into her pocket, unfolding the cloth to withdraw the silver pieces.  They hummed and were warm to the touch and though she did not yet have the ability of hearing the song of the metals, she knew that the silver she held was speaking, singing.  She reached out with her free hand to grasp that of the prince's and placed the silver into the slightly roughened palm.  He did not draw away.

In a moment of foresight, a gift which she would later be known for, Istarnië spoke.  

"Listen."

Fëanáro felt the smaller hands of the nìs surround his, the twisted shapes of warm metal separating their palms.  And he listened, closing his eyes to concentrate on capturing each note of the faint melody.  The theme of this music was new to him.  He could feel the silver song in his hands as it sang of beauty in a voice quiet and longing.  It sang of letting the light of the Trees dance free and fair upon its smooth skin, not in a cage of silver where it would sit like a grounded bird.  The song shifted and sang of pain, broken things lying on the floor.  

Fëanáro held the silver for long moments, listening.  And finally, he spoke to it.

            _Can we start anew?_

            Yes.

            The craftman's grey eyes opened.  They burned with a clear determined fire, sweeping away the dying embers of his anger.  Fëanáro tightened his grip on the silver as an image unfolded in his mind.  He placed a hand on the shoulder of the elven woman before him in the manner of those bonded by understanding, giving her a small smile of thanks.  She returned the favour with a grin of her own, glad that the storm had passed.  The blue fire of her eyes shone like sapphires in a framework of flaming curls.  On impulse, Fëanáro took her hand and kissed it, taking an impish delight in the shocked expression that crossed her freckled features.  He left her speechless in Yavanna's garden as he hurried towards Aulë's forge.

Istarnië stood there, feeling her cheeks heat and glad that the Prince Curufinwë was not facing her.  She took several deep breaths as a single thought came to mind. 

_What in Aman just happened?_

*          *          *          *

Epilogue

            The forge was silent save for the purr of the small fire.   Blossoms of silver sat on the worn workbench as if they had sprung from the wood only moments before, though they had been crafted some years ago.  On their smooth polished skin, the reflection of Curufinwë Fëanáro was bent diligently over a fine piece of work.  Long moments were spent on adjusting the precise position of a very fine chisel before a few delicate taps were administered to the silver.  The process was repeated methodically, carefully, with demanding attention.  This work would be perfect.  

            The fire had long since died and the embers grown cold when Fëanáro set down his chisel and reached for a bottle of jeweller's polish and a rag.  The small piece of cloth made tight circles around the silver until the metal gleamed as though lit by an inner fire.  He glided across the room and stepped outside into the light.  Placing his finished work upon the palm of his hand, Fëanáro lifted it so that it was bathed in the light of the Trees.  Fëanáro truly looked at the gleaming band of silver for the first time as he turned slightly so that the light slid across the contours of the engravings at different angles.  Intricate scrollwork framed the circumference on the outside while impossibly fine flowers gilded with copper flourished on the inside.  It was perfect.  

            Fëanáro smiled.  She would love it, not for the beauty she saw but for the beauty that she had learned to hear, the song of silver.  He closed his eyes, cupping the ring in his hands.  

            _Listen._

            The song was beautiful. 

Author's Notes 

The title means 'silver song'.  If my Quenya is grammatically incorrect, please let me know.  I would love to learn more about the language.  This story is unbetaed.  All mistakes are my unintellectual property.  I reserve all rights to be lazy and awful with grammar and spelling (though hopefully I have not).  


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